


Habitation

by witheredsong



Category: Muqabil, Pakistani serials
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:10:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/pseuds/witheredsong
Summary: He loves her. That's the most difficult thing in his life.





	Habitation

The first night she’s back by his side, and they’re back together in their small home, he can’t sleep for the life of him. She’s in her bedroom, alone, and he is in the library/office, on the small pull-out couch. His leg aches, and he lies in the darkness, close enough to her flowers on the terrace that the perfume makes its way into his lonely sleepless vigil, like her caress. 

He always knew, maybe even before he saw her all grown up, and curled inward with deeply-held sorrow, that he loved her. His music, his love of flowers, his troubled relationship to his faith and to his faithfully observant father - everything was tied to the infrequent playmate of his childhood, his fairy-princess that he idealized and romanticized and loved as one loves unattainable things.

The reality of her - the extent of the damage that had turned the laughing, mischievous girl he remembered into the recluse before him, had been difficult to accept. After the disbelieving euphoria that she chose him - _him!_ , he didn’t know what to make of her withdrawn quietness, her trembling, traumatized response to any overture of physical closeness. And then she told him, and his heart twisted on itself at her pain, before the rage that someone had dared to lay hands on her, took place of the sorrow. And then, the rage was subsumed by the immense wave of tenderness and pity - he hadn’t known himself capable of so much emotion, the way his chest felt as if there was a gaping wound where his heart should have been - his heart that now resided outside his body, with her.

He still can’t bear to think of what came after. And yet, even when the horror of her truth tore his family apart, his heroic, pious Abba unmasked as the monster he hadn’t even dreamt of in his nightmares - when the horror and rage and disgust threatened to swamp him and he was so so angry with her he couldn’t breathe - it should have taken his love and tenderness too, but life was rarely that straightforward. Even then, he could breathe only when she was near him - this girl who had suffered the demolition of her childhood at the hands of his Abba, and chose to love the monster’s son. Why? Why him? He had asked her once, his anguish making him cruel, even when her eyes overflowed with tears, when he could see how he was hurting her. She said, helpless, “I don’t know - I don’t know. It was refuge I sought with you.” He knew in that instance that he would never be free of her - he could travel 10000 miles, and her shadow would still be cast on his heart.

And now, in this elegant house where Pareesa and he play at marriage, he wonders if this is what he will feel the rest of his life - the jagged wound of his father’s loss, unsanctified by mourning, and his helpless, hopeless love for her, the flower that survived even the hail-storm of their circumstances. The darkness is stifling, and he painfully levers himself out of bed, limps his way to the terrace. There are stars out in the sky, inasmuch as is visible through Karachi’s smog, and a light breeze brings the perfume of jasmine and tuberoses to him. He tries to think of what he needs to do - he needs to take Paree to his mother and Sumbul in the morning. He needs to sit down with her father and figure out if he is going back to his position as financial manager in his father-in-law’s company. He wants to marry her again - quietly, this time, maybe only her and him and the officiant, promising themselves to each other without the lies and sorrows and secrets. He wants her to heal. He wants her.

He feels himself trembling - delayed shock. He had wanted so much for her to come back to him, and yet, had not believed that it was possible. As always, the reality of her was so much more than his imagination of her presence - just to hear her breathe, her footsteps echoing on the steps as he worked in the kitchen, her off-key singing in the garden - was a balm on his heart, and for the moment that was enough, if he willed himself not to think of anything but her.

He feels more than he hears her approach him, so light and quiet on her feet, and stays still. In the quiet darkness, only the two of them in the house, the moment feels intimate and fragile, dangerous. She leans into him, her forehead between his shoulder-blades, the second time she has touched him voluntarily. Her light breaths raise goose-pimples on his arms. “Armaan”, she says, and oh. No one calls his name like she does, a promise and fulfillment, love and sorrow and finding something infinitely precious that had been lost and mourned and missed. “Armaan, I am afraid”, her voice hushed. He turns to her, and now, her head rests on his chest, over his heart, as she hides herself, the tension evident in her bow-string taut body, her white-clenched knuckles. He dares to lift his hand to her wild mess of curls, feeling that same wave of tenderness expand within him - “Why?”, he asks, quietly, almost shocked at the affection in his own voice. “Will you ever forgive me?” she asks muffled, tears soaking his shirt, and all his rage drains away from him, his hurt and pain and feelings of worthlessness, even if only for the moment. Her fingers are clenched in his shirt, holding so tight he can feel the fabric give. She is so afraid of his answer, he realizes, terrified of the possibility of losing him - and he feels laughter blooming suddenly. He won’t ever be able to leave her - the past will sometimes threaten to drown him, and drown her as well, but he will always find his way back to her, and she to him. He kisses her forehead, the first caress he bestows on his wife, and says, “Kabka maaf kar diya!” - “I have forgiven you a forever ago.” She raises her tear-stained face to him, and kisses his lips, a short, chaste press, and he tastes the salt. This is her forgiving him. He hold her in his arms, and she shakes against him, in the darkness. 

They will heal and survive, and see the sun rise.

**Author's Note:**

> “Marriage is not  
> a house or even a tent
> 
> it is before that, and colder:
> 
> the edge of the forest, the edge  
> of the desert  
> the unpainted stairs  
> at the back where we squat  
> outside, eating popcorn
> 
> the edge of the receding glacier
> 
> where painfully and with wonder  
> at having survived even  
> this far
> 
> we are learning to make fire” - Margaret Atwood.


End file.
